“First, give him a salute. He may be in here, hunting for the girl, if she hid from him. It can do no harm, and may do good. If alive and within hearing, Fred’ll answer.”
The rifles were discharged, one quickly succeeding the other, and then all listened breathlessly. Minute after minute passed by, without any reply. Campbell drew a long breath.
“Well, let’s go. If he is in here, he will not mind a little delay—for he must be dead!”
Slowly the little party retraced their steps and emerged from the baranca. Mounting their horses they rode slowly off along the edge of the flinty ground, scattered at regular intervals from that to the trees, in order that, should one overlook the trail, another might find it.
The hopes that had been roused by Fenton’s suggestion grew fainter with each rod passed over. And when the end of the timber island was reached, full three miles from where the trail was lost, the hunters reined in their horses, their heads drooping in despair. That hope—seemingly the last—was banished.
“What shall we do now?”
“What can we do?” and Campbell’s voice sounded strained and husky.
“I hev it!” cried Ruel. “The dorgs—we kin trail him ’th them!”
“That’s so—why didn’t we think of it before?”
“We can try—but I haven’t much hope,” gloomily added Campbell. “You know how we rode around—we must have covered the trail.”